Ghost had noticed the signs long before you had even started to realize it yourself—how your steps seemed a little heavier, how you spoke less, the way your eyes were always somewhere else during briefings. For a while, you’d been full of energy, ready to prove yourself, even rambling endlessly about your favorite cookies after a tough day. But now, that spark had dulled.

Ghost wasn’t one to push or pry. He knew better than anyone that some battles were fought quietly, alone. But he also knew the weight of carrying too much.

That evening, the barracks were quiet. Most of the squad was either off-duty or catching up on rest. The low hum of the base provided a strange kind of silence as you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at nothing in particular. Your gear was discarded messily in the corner, boots half-laced, forgotten.

A soft knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts. Before you can answer, the door creaks open, and there stands Ghost. For a moment, you wonder if you’re in trouble, or if this is some kind of squad check. But then you notice something out of place in his hands—a plate. Not just any plate, but one piled with cookies.

In his deep, calm voice, he breaks the silence: “Heard you used to go on about these.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. “You talked my ear off about ‘em one night. Figured you could use a bite.”

He sets the plate down on the small desk beside your bed, his movements measured and deliberate. There’s no lecture, no deep conversation—just the quiet, steady presence of Ghost in your room.

Your mouth opens, but the words get stuck in your throat. Part of you wants to tell him you’re fine, that you don’t need the gesture.

“Ghost, I…”

He shakes his head, cutting you off before you can protest. "You don’t have to say anything.”

He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, making himself comfortable like this is just another ordinary evening. “Sometimes it’s just easier not to.”